


The Closed Circuit

by Davechicken



Series: The Pilot and his Broken Saber [7]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo has to speak to Chewbacca about what happened on the Starkiller planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closed Circuit

Kylo doesn’t really, entirely, on all levels want to speak to his adoptive uncle. They haven’t exchanged a single word since - since. Since that day. He’s seen the tall Wookie in passing, but they’ve both avoided eye-contact. 

The problem is: Kylo can’t blame him. Aside from the mechanics of a Wookie Life Debt (which were strong, abiding, deep and fundamental) Han had been his _friend_. He’d known Han before even Leia and Luke met him. He’d known Han for longer than Kylo had been _alive_. Chewbacca had loved Han as deeply as any of them, and it would be difficult to say if there even could be a ‘more’, or simply ‘different’. Probably just ‘different’. Once you got to a certain level of love, there was nothing higher. It was just that you expressed it in different ways; friend, lover, spouse, parent, child.

But Chewie also loved him. He’d loved _Ben_ , but Ben was still a part of him. Maybe it wasn’t the name he wanted, but it didn’t mean Ben wasn’t inside of him. All of the boy’s memories, all his hopes, dreams, fears… those were internalised, and Kylo could access them. He could remember feeling safe in those furry arms. He could remember rides on high shoulders. He could remember trying to growl back at his uncle in his own tongue, and he could remember Chewie getting angry the day he was sent away.

Ben had been happy that Chewie’d been angry. He had. He’d felt the self-righteous fury in his own heart was justified, because his Wookie uncle didn’t want him isolated, either. That hadn’t been enough to sway his mother and Human uncle, and his father always just fell in line (or ran away). He tries to remember the look on Chewie’s face, then, to get a baseline for how the conversation is going to go.

Poe offered to come. So did his mother. No one else did, but that’s fine, because Wookies are known for their temper, and because no one else really knows in any detail what happened. Kylo turned them both down, knowing he needed to do this alone.

Chewie flies the _Falcon_ in. Alone. Not ideal, but nothing is, in this life. Kylo stands on the landing zone duracrete, waiting for the gangplank to lower. He stands, and he waits, and he wonders if maybe he should have prepared more. He has no idea what to say, and he knows nothing he _can_ say will change what he did. It’s a matter of record, of fact. He - he - killed his father. He killed Han Solo. Han is dead. That’s a fixed point in time, it’s an indisputable truth. His mother’s forgiven him, but… she’s his mother.

The Wookie stands at the top of the gangplank, and Kylo stands at the bottom. He’s shaking. He’s wearing black slacks, black boots, grey tunic, and he’s left his saber behind with Poe. He’s entirely unarmed, save for his Force mastery. Kylo’s hands wriggle around the air, wanting the weight on his hip that isn’t there. Not to threaten, but to feel safe.

Chewie growls, asking if he plans on coming aboard or not.

Apparently he does.

***

Chewie stands at the top of the gangplank, and Kylo walks up towards him. He’s going to bite him a new one, isn’t he? He deserves it. He deserves… probably not the sudden grab of arms that pull him into the taller male’s chest. He flinches for all of ten seconds before the wall of muscle and brown fur relaxes him, and his hands slide into the embrace. A slow, slow, slow breath. Shaking, from head to toe.

“I’m _so sorry_.”  


His uncle tells him he’s grown, and he can’t pick him up any more. It makes Kylo laugh, and they go into the lounge area. Chewie has a hand on the back of his head like he always used to, guiding him around the obstacles of life, and it sends a fresh stab of memory through him. They go to the seats, and Kylo carefully folds into one. He understands better, now, why Chewie is often cranky about furniture, and he doesn’t come up that high on him, even now.

Chewie tells him to say what he needs. He looks… well. He doesn’t have wrinkles, like his mother and father… like his father did. There’s more grey in his fur, and his eyes are older. Or maybe Kylo can see more in them, now, can recognise some of the emotion better. 

“I… I’m so sorry, Chewie. I know. I - I just need to say it, and then… then you can talk. I…”  


Oh, how does he do this? He apologised to his mother, but it had been closer to the bone, then, closer to the moment. His heart wavers between feeling the chasm below them, the depths of dark below… and recoiling from it as _too much_. Too much to feel. Too much. 

“I was… I was wrong. There’s nothing else to say on that front: I was _wrong_. Snoke… Snoke made me think the only thing I could _be_ was **Dark**. He made me think I was too broken to stay here. He… he told me… he told me my training would make everything work. Make… make the… make the inside of my heart stop hurting.”  


Tears do slip out, now, and he talks through them.

“I was stupid to believe him. But I was in so much pain. He - he - _wore down at me_ , he made me think I was… I was… a monster, Chewie, and that I was wrong inside and that the pain was because I was fighting the Dark. He made me believe the Dark would free me, that it was strong enough to drive out the pain in my heart. I couldn’t sleep nights, I - I - was so angry, so hurt… I felt… I felt like I was thrown aside, as a faulty… a faulty…”  


Chewie pulls him under his arm, and Kylo lets him. He cries into his chest, but he has to tell him. He has to tell him, because he needs it to be heard. He needs it to be heard, so he knows he can be forgiven. Maybe he doesn’t deserve the forgiveness, and maybe his behaviour was so beyond the pale that it can’t be understood, but he’d felt he had no _choice_ at the time. In hindsight, he’s torn between: ‘you knew it was wrong’ and ‘you fought and fought, but the pressure broke you’. Either one casts blame on him: for a lack of moral strength, or a lack of psychic strength. 

“I thought I was bad and wrong and evil and I thought the rage and fear and love I felt meant I was broken inside and I thought because I couldn’t find peace like Luke said I should find that it meant I was just going to go bad like the voice said and I tried I tried but he made it feel good and he was in my head all the time and I didn’t have any rest and even in my dreams and I thought maybe if I went then he would stop that the _pain_ would stop but it got **worse** because no one loved me but I had done so many many many many bad things I thought no one could let me back and I tried - I wanted - I wanted one last thing to stop me from feeling because I loved you all so much and Snoke knew I loved you and he knew love saved Anakin and he wanted to test me or punish me or I don’t know but he made me believe maybe the hurting would stop and I knew if I came home that no one would forgive me and they would all look at me like the monster I am and I couldn’t take that and the voice would still be there and maybe I would hurt _someone else_ and maybe I wouldn’t be safe and maybe I fell because I should have and I loved him I loved Dad and I killed him and I’m sorry I am so so so sorry I know he wanted to help me but I–”  


Chewie roars in anger, but the anger isn’t directed wholly at him. He pulls Kylo tighter, and shakes him in his arms. Tells him that he’s sorry they let him be hurt, and he doesn’t understand, but he still loves him.

“I’m sorry,” Kylo says, as he winds his fingers into familiar strands. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”  


***

Poe is waiting for him, when he gets back. Waiting for him with a glass of chocolate milk and cookies, and Kylo wonders if it’s because he thinks the childhood memories are too strong, or if it’s simply his way of offering comfort. Both work, considering. It was always a treat they’d share, and the gesture makes him smile as he wipes the tears from the edge of his nose.

“Wanna talk?”  


Kylo shakes his head.

“Wanna watch trash?”  


Kylo pauses, then nods. He doesn’t, but he can cope with the background noise. Poe flicks on the holoscreen, then takes their little stash over to the couch. Kylo sits, feet under his ass, and then leans against Poe. He doesn’t want to eat straight off, but he will, eventually.

“When you wanna talk, you can,” Poe tells him. “If that’s in an hour, that’s fine. A week. A month. A year.”  


“I hope I can talk before a year is out.” He intentionally ‘misunderstands’, and Poe whacks him gently.  


“Ass.”  


“Your ass.”  


The holo trails on, and Kylo tries to run through things. It’s hard. Chewie still held him, even after it all. Chewie still loves him, even if there’s grief in with the love, now. In a way, he appreciates that. He appreciates that it’s not all swept away, all forgiven just because he feels bad. He _did_ the things he did. He **did** them. It’s only right that the love people feel for him has something else in there, too, now. Not wiping out the love, but existing at the same time. A sour note in the symphony, forever etched by a second hand onto the score of his life. 

“He says he doesn’t understand. But I don’t think he can.”  


“I don’t think any of us really can,” Poe agrees. “Not… how you felt.”  


“I suppose not. We’re all adults, now. Things feel different when you’re younger. You… understand less.”  


“You were still growing up,” Poe agrees. “And you had enough to deal with, without that.”  


The silence spreads, and Poe eats half a cookie, feeding the rest to Kylo.

“All of my limbs are intact. And… do you think it’s wrong that I… am pleased he’s mad at me?”  


“…no. I mean. Mad is only one of the things, right? Like. He still loves you.”  


“Yeah, he still loves me. But I don’t - I don’t want you to forget what I did, or think I do. I want to remember… and do right by the memory of people. To… to do more good now, than bad before. Even if it doesn’t undo it, it will… even out the galaxy. Right?”  


“Any good is good, babe.” Poe eats the next cookie to himself.  


“I don’t… I mean. I agree. I just… I kind of.. I feel bad, too. So I don’t mind other people feeling bad about me. But it isn’t _all_ bad. It’s like… they can be - _he_ can be - angry and upset with me, but still… love and care for me?”  


Poe’s arm tightens. 

“…Poe?”  


“It’s what I wanted you to feel all along, Ky. I mean. Not the sadness. But… but knowing we aren’t ignoring what you did. Not feeling like you need to hide it. We all know. We still love you.”

“Starting to get that.”  


“Just starting?”  


“I’m a slow learner.”  


***

Kylo almost doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He feels some strange sort of emotional… not peace? No. Not calm. He doesn’t have a word for it, other than maybe it’s like a normal day, after so long in a storm. Like the skies and seas aren’t still and mirrored, but they’re not whipped with white foam as they scream their hatred at one another.

Instead, it’s like the clouds slowly drift, casting faint shadows of darker thoughts, but moving from one side to the other. The waters lap, cresting and falling, breaking the pattern. He wonders if this is how ‘normal’ people feel. He’s been around such extraordinarily loud personalities (his parents, his uncles, the war heroes and the villains. Even Poe is prone to flights of emotional fantasy, almost like the characters in the trashy holonovellas they watch. He guesses Big Personalities come hand in hand with their style of life. You don’t become a hero or a villain by being passive and unmoveable, after all.

But for now, it’s nice to briefly stay there. It’s like going so high, so low, so fast… it’s like his need for that today is gone. Maybe it’s just that he only has a set amount of power to his emotions for a day, and now the excess is burned off. Whatever it is, he’s not going to look too closely at it. 

They snuggle closer, and it’s not like the other times. Usually it’s a matter of fierce, sudden fire. Or it’s a rapid, forceful tease. Or… well. Anger. Sort of. It’s usually born of their tempers, good or bad. Right now, though, Kylo doesn’t feel tempered. Or… yes. Tempered like durasteel heated and beaten into shape, then slowly cooled into the blade that’s needed. Honed, sharpened, focussed. Poised and balanced, like the tang of his weapon is sheathed in a hilt just right for the offset of the tool. Like a saber, crafted and perfected. (Nothing like his own.)

“I love you, you know,” he whispers against Poe’s cheek.  


He can feel the smile in the way his face shifts against his own. Poe turns towards him, and their noses bump and rest against the other’s. Kylo closes his eyes because of the closeness, and the hand on Poe’s knee tightens. He feels the one around his neck move to thread fingers through the edges of his hair, and he doesn’t lean any closer in. His thumb finds a snag on Poe’s pants, and he nudges it with his short nail, and the holo rumbles on. Just… closeness. No need to rush, no need to move along.

Poe smells of cookies, and Kylo grins. He kisses the side of his mouth, licking the tiniest crumb away with a snicker. “Messy.”

“Speak for yourself.”  


Kylo leans closer. “You can return the favour, then.”

Poe looks demurely over, then sticks his tongue out in what is probably supposed to be a sultry fashion. It looks silly, and Kylo snickers at the tickly licks around his own face. It feels weird, and then there’s two hands in his hair, and their heads press together. 

“I do, though,” Kylo says, again.  


“Me too.”  


Fingers knot and play in his hair, tugging just enough for the sting to be pleasant and light. He purrs, low in his throat, and leaps up and over. He sinks to kneel astride his lap, and puts his hands onto his lover’s chest. His palms press into his collarbones, the fingers curling up and over. 

“Had enough cookies?”  


“Had enough cookies,” Kylo agrees. He bends down, waiting for Poe to tip his head back against the couch back to let him kiss him. The kiss is slow, slow and tender. He talks empty words against his lips, then licks for his own traces of more cookie-crumbs. Poe laughs, and Kylo swipes his tongue in as retaliation.  


They trade back and forth, back and forth, as their hands just hold safe and sound; Poe’s around his waist, Kylo’s on his lover’s shoulders. 

Kylo isn’t even sure he’s fully hard, not yet, but he doesn’t care. It’s not about racing to climax, it’s about being close, being close and in love. Because he is. He’s in _love._ Real love, not some childish imagining. He knows Poe has flaws, Poe knows _he_ does, and they still work at it. He **wants** to work at it, no matter how hard it is. He wants him in his life, wants him happy, wants him close by. Wants what’s _best_ for him, no matter what. Love. Real love. The kind that smashes in through your ribs, grips your whole spine and twists the vertebrae and grinds them together, but you adore and need it all the same.

As they kiss, Kylo spider-walks his fingers up over the collar of Poe’s shirt to his throat. He needs a shave, but it’s not a problem. Walk, walk, walk until he strokes over the place he swallows, feels him do it. Poe doesn’t move his grip yet, not rushing him. He appreciates that, and snicks buttons undone. 

“Here?” Kylo asks.  


“Yeah. If you want to.”  


“I want to.”  


“Then so do I.”  


A shared smile, then Kylo moves to lick and lap at the salty skin he exposes. Poe’s hands go lower, carefully taking his ass in their grip. He feels a little stab at that, and hisses in approval. The hands curl and prise him wider, then squeeze him tight together again. It’s a firm, sure sensation, one that he finds he enjoys. There’s no expectation behind it, just the joy of touching, the sharing of each other. Kylo tugs Poe’s shirt from his pants, and they shuck it off together. His fingers now trace golden, welcoming skin; following the contours of his athleticism. Down and around where he feels the muscles tense, and he scratches his fingernails bluntly over nipples. 

Poe hisses, and Kylo beams. 

“Like that?”

“Babe… what do you think?”  


It’s a good job they learned snark from one another, really. Or maybe Poe learned it from the Organa-Solos he was constantly around. Kylo lowers his head and licks it better… then pinches the dusky little bullet-point between his front teeth and suckles and pulses with his tongue. The hands on his ass grab harder, and he’s rubbed into the greeting of an erection in Poe’s pants. So. Definitely working. He does the second one, and Poe curses under his breath. Kylo wants it louder, so he moves in a hurry and shoves Poe down onto his back, sideways, on the couch. Hand on his chest, pinning him down.

“Want your wicked way with me, do you?”  


“I’m an adept of both Light and Dark, Poe,” Kylo tells him, with a subtle smile. “Love, lust, passion.”  


He’s never brought the Force so explicitly into bed before. Not like this.

“Passion can be good,” Poe agrees. “Real good.”  


“I’m not giving that up.”  


“I’m not asking you to.”  


He wonders what the answer really is? His mother loved his father, and his father loved her back. Their love had turned to bitter recriminations around his young and troubled head, but they’d still _loved_. He doubts it was his mother’s Force-sensitivity that did that, more the unfortunate conjunction of two loud and erratic orbits. He knows there can be passion without conflict, though, even if he’s never experienced it, not fully. Right now… he doesn’t feel the need to hurt, to control, to rule, to destroy. His emotion right now tells him to make Poe happy, and thus himself. Or also himself, at the same time. But mostly Poe.

Kylo can see how his love for Poe could put him in an impossible situation, still. He might well make a decision that Poe wouldn’t be happy with, in order to keep him safe and sound. But does that make him wrong? Or… would many people do the same? It’s one thing to sacrifice _yourself_ , another to sacrifice the love of your life. 

He can’t give up on his heart. He can’t. He tried to wallow in the Dark, and it did no good. He tried the strict asceticism of the Light, and that broke him, too. Maybe he’s not enough of either to make a real go of it. Maybe he just has to do the best he can. Love can make some people do cruel things, and the lack of it can do just as much harm.

He knows. He’s seen both sides.

They kiss some more, and Poe’s legs part around him, pulling him in, close. Kylo holds onto the couch for purchase, then rocks between his thighs. Gentle pressure, gentle touches. He can feel Poe’s arousal, and his own is not far off full. He grinds their cocks as closely as he can, and then he leans in to whisper into his ear: “I’d like very much to make love to you, Poe. Is that alright?”

“ _Maker, yes, yes_ –!” Poe’s response is visceral and heartfelt, and it blazes through the Force, through their Bond.  


Kylo grins, and pushes both hands into the waistband of Poe’s slacks, fishing until he can find which way his cock is pointing, stroking under the fabric, eyes on him. “You want it slow?”

Poe nods, and he doesn’t think it’s out of discomfort or unease, more a desire to draw this connection, this affair of the body out for as long as possible. Kylo can empathise with that, and he beams at the silky smooth length in his palm. Up-down. Up-down. He tugs the sighs and moans out of him, watches Poe’s mouth go slack with happiness. His fingers slide across the topography beneath them, chasing the leaf-vein whirl of blood vessels, pulling happiness out like quantifiable drops of sweat on a brow. 

He can do this. He can _do_ this. Over and over he strokes him, and then he starts to slip his pants down. His boyfriend lifts his hips, helping him, and then there’s an awkward moment when it would have been easier to just stand and undress, but principles are principles, and both of them need to be naked, right now. They laugh, and things are pushed and kicked off, and then Kylo kneels between Poe’s thighs.

His knees are up, his legs open, and there’s that full and wanting cock nestling above the dark curls: a hungry, waiting dragon. He’d love to ride it, but he also wants to do the other thing. The second desire wins out, for now. “Sure?”

“Sure.”  


Poe _looks_ sure. He looks calm, and happy, and warm. He looks in love, and Kylo’s chest tightens. He summons the lube (thank the Force for its use as a sexual aid, he thinks), and pours some out. He warms it with conventional physics, then slaps his hand under Poe’s balls, slips his middle finger into the crack and teases over his entrance. Over, over, over. Poe bites his lip, grunting, and grinds down onto his hand. Kylo almost wants to just shove two fingers in and see if he can take it, but no. Slow. Slow. 

One finger in, and he fucks him _so, so tenderly_. He watches Poe’s pupils blow, his lips part and show teeth. Kylo decides he likes the noises, and he uses that finger harder. Harder, until Poe looks ready to beg, and he sinks a second one inside.

Poe does beg, now. Begs and bounces on his hand, trying to get more. Kylo’s own, untouched cock is just as demanding, but he ignores it in favour of stuffing three fingers into Poe. He can see them going into his lover. Can see where they’re joined. Poe’s body tight around the intrusion, the grip like a promise of something beautiful to come. Poe’s so ready to welcome him inside, and Kylo’s drawn to the simple beauty of this act. Physical bliss aside, the idea of being so close to someone that you can penetrate their most sacred spaces, can open yourself physically and emotionally, allow such vulnerability, such union… to stay like that, joined, one…

“ _Fuck, but I love you_.”  


Poe laughs, and puts his hand on Kylo’s arm. “So you keep saying.”

“Well, it’s true.”  


“And I believe you.”  


“But I need to tell you. Even if you know. Because it’s true, and the truth of it feels like - feels like I’ll _explode_ if I don’t say it.” It makes no sense, but it’s _true_. No matter if Poe is assured of his affection and care, he has to tell him. Because the feeling burns until he does, and bubbles at the back of his throat.

“Fuck me, babe.”

Kylo snorts. “Are you always this forward?”

“You have your hand up my ass, how is that forward?”

“…point.”  


“I wish you would.”  


Kylo can’t stop the smile, then, and he shakes his head to try to get rid of it. “You know you could ask politely?”

“Okay: fuck me, babe, **please**.”  


Kylo thinks it’s part of the Miracle of Dameron that he never really feels nervous in bed with him, not any more. Or on the couch, apparently. He uses his fingers some more, just to be an _ass_ , and beams when Poe kicks at him harmlessly. “Okay, okay…”

“I’m just playing you at your own game,” Poe insists. “You’re always so needy.”  


“You _make_ me needy,” Kylo says, and pulls his hand out. He takes his cock in one hand, and Poe does this weird thing where all of a sudden he grabs Kylo’s waist between his legs, wrapped around him and his hips tilted to give him an eager target.  


Should a target be eager? This one is. Kylo makes sure he lines up with it, then pushes just the tip inside. It’s so gloriously warm, and sure, and it feels like… well, he isn’t sure how to think of it, just that he loves it. Loves the way Poe’s body opens, and he holds his hips to slide deeper in.

“Ohhh, oh, oh yeah - like that - _damn_ , Kylo, you feel **good**.”  


Kylo flushes under the praise, finding it weirdly nice to hear. He knows Poe enjoys sex with him, but it still is good to hear it aloud. He hears no deceit in Poe’s tones, only thorough sincerity and heat. He pushes in and out, taking him as slow as his fingers did, and watches as his pilot arches sinuously, a wave of pleasure as he rides him down to the root.

“ _Fuck_.” Kylo’s balls press against Poe’s ass, and they stay there. Just for a minute. Poe’s all the way around him, and there’s no closer they can really be. He feels that bubbling sensation, again, like his love is overflowing inside of him, like reactive metal dropped into water. 

“G-general idea, Ky.”  


“Fine. You fucked the Force back into me? I’m going to fuck the _sass_ out of your _ass_.”

“Pretty sure the sass doesn’t live in my– OH!”  


Kylo has hold of Poe’s thighs, wrapped around him, and he puts a foot on the floor. That gives him more power, and he uses it to slam hard, hard and fast. He’s in good shape from his sparring and battle-readiness, and that translates into good flexibility and focussed strength. Which he uses, hammering from almost-out to balls-deep.

“OOOooooooh,” Poe says, intelligently. He gets this glazed look in his eyes, and one of his feet wiggles in tension.  


Emboldened, Kylo tries to get fancy. Or something. He tries to shift the angle, working out how he can make Poe moan loudest. Poe moans a _lot_. Like… so much that Kylo actually wonders if he’s hitting the volume button, or something. Not that he minds, because it’s one hell of a confidence booster when your partner howls the roof down, heels smacking at his ass, hands in his hair. They tangle and tug, and Poe’s bucking under him like it’s _almost_ enough. Like it’s _almost just right there yes–_

The thoughts come through, loud and clear. Poe’s broadcasting internally at the top of his voice, and it just makes Kylo love him all the more for how much he’s enjoying this, how easily he gives himself over to a moment of shared bliss. This. **This**. This was worth coming back for. _He_ was worth coming back for. All the pain, all the fear… all of it vanishes, or fades to almost-nothing in his beloved Poe’s arms. 

Frankly, Kylo doesn’t care how they do what they do, as long as it feels like this. The… whole-body happy, the warm, soul-soothing heat. He drops to kiss and bite at his mouth, and growls: “Touch yourself for me. I want to fuck you through your climax.”

“Yes, _Sir_ ,” Poe jokes, and Kylo knows it’s just play-acting.   


He does it, though. He reaches between them, grabs his cock, and starts to tug hard and fast. Kylo doesn’t look down from his eyes, seeing enough in the tension around his temples and jaw. Seeing the way his shoulder blurred with the movement, feeling the thudding vibrations through Poe’s body as he took him hard, hard, hard. 

“W-want… want me to come for you?” Poe asks.  


Kylo nods. “I do. I do.”

“Mmmm g-gonna… ugh… gonna come sooo… gnnhhh…”  


Maker, Maker, but Poe is so beautiful. A laugh they share, but not at something, just because. Kylo nods, and Poe echoes the gesture. He gives him every last flicker of his stamina, riding his ass so hard he thinks he must be bruising his cheeks with the force of it. Poe calls out again at the abuse, then he’s coming.

He’s coming, because his body goes tight around him. His eyes blink, haze, and then snap back to him with some kind of freaking _epiphany_ , like - like - Kylo doesn’t know, but it feels damn near sacrilegious and divine and perfect and wrong all in one. It’s just sex. It’s just sex, but it isn’t. It’s not, because it’s Poe. And Poe loves him, and he loves Poe, and even if they were kissing for fifteen hours until their lips were chapped, he’d feel just as damn happy.

Force. Force’s sake… the broken sound from his lover’s lips, the smell and sound of his orgasm splashing between them, and Kylo can’t hold back. He wants to hide his face, wants to close his eyes, wants to demand a kiss or push his lips into Poe’s throat. He wants, but he forces his gaze to stay locked, and in that moment of _loss of control_ , when his body is no longer his own… he knows. Something. Something he hasn’t got words for, but he knows.

“Poe…”

“Yeah. Yeah. _Me too_.”

Kylo feels the happy tears, and he drops himself into Poe’s arms. Still locked, still coupled. There’s no going back, and Kylo wouldn’t want to. 

It’s a long time before they move from the couch. Neither one of them wants to move, not until they have to. 


End file.
